Waste Management
by peanutbutterer
Summary: "I've got dinosaur shit under my fingernails." Post-movie.


_**a/n** : The deleted scene is not required viewing, but if you haven't seen it, it'll help to know that it involves Claire giving herself a particularly offensive sponge bath :)_

* * *

They're sitting in an overcrowded lobby, waiting for someone to find them rooms for the night when she notices it.

"I've got dinosaur shit under my fingernails." She makes a little sound that's more a hiccup than a cry.

Owen lifts his head from where it had dropped onto the back of the couch.

"Shit," she repeats, splaying her fingers in front of his face, "under my nails."

His head drops back again. "That is definitely not the only place you have dinosaur shit."

Tears prick at the edges of her vision. She blinks them back, shit-stained fingers stroking her shit-stained thighs, futilely trying to iron out the wrinkles in her previously white, now shit-colored skirt. She knows what she looks like, imagines what she smells like, and feels suddenly and inexplicably embarrassed.

Her fingers still when Owen's hand comes to rest on top of hers where it's picking at the red phosphorus burn in the fabric. He's sitting up now, eyes focused on hers, causing a burn of their own.

"If it's any consolation," he says, voice growing more hoarse with every word, "you still smell like vanilla."

She laughs, a crass laugh that bubbles up and comes out in a burst. "There is no way that's true."

"Yeah," he scrunches up his nose, "I was just being nice."

She flips her palm over and presses it into his, squeezing once before slipping it out of his grasp and bringing it back up to clutch at the blanket that hangs on her shoulders.

* * *

"Ms. Dearing?" a young man says, and she has to force her eyes to bring him into focus. The room swims around him, too many people, too much noise.

"Yes?"

"Your room is ready." He smiles, hands her the keycard and starts to walk away.

She squeezes the card, plastic digging into her hand, grounding her.

"What about Mr. Grady?" she calls after him, but her words are swallowed by the crowd. They stuck too long in her throat.

"I'm fine," Owen insists, his touch light on her forearm. "This couch already has an imprint shaped like my ass."

She stares into his eyes and tries to imagine walking away, tries to imagine leaving him behind. The mere thought of it brings beads of sweat to her hairline, increases her already racing pulse.

She reaches for his hand and tugs him up as she stands.

"For survival."

* * *

She stays in the shower until her skin turns red, but the heat never touches her insides. The white fluffy robe is soft against her skin, but it doesn't bring her any warmth.

When she emerges from the bathroom, Owen's there on the end of the bed, doing his best to recreate the ass imprint he worked so hard on in the lobby. He's still covered in mud and blood and sweat, dinosaur shit and gasoline. His brow furrows over his eyes as they stare ahead, sightless.

She perches on the edge and he manages to tear his gaze from whatever it is he's not really seeing.

He nods toward the room's telephone. "Corporate called. There's a video conference tomorrow morning, and they expect you to be in on it."

"Did they say how they expect me to accomplish that feat?"

"There's a laptop and a company credit card waiting for you at the front desk."

Something claws at her insides. _Scritch. Scratch._

"Then I suppose room service is on me."

* * *

"I was in such a hurry to get out of my clothes," Owen says when she returns to the room, "I forgot that I wouldn't have any to get into after the shower."

He's standing by the window, bare-chested, a towel wrapped snuggly around his waist. Water is still dripping from the ends of his hair and droplets roll down his shoulders.

She thinks she should be uncomfortable, or at the very least turned-on, but everything's muted, dampened somehow and nothing's really registering. The emotions she should be feeling (fear, anger, grief, shame, horror) have all muddled together and settled into a dull throb at the base of her lungs. She feels like she's underwater.

"I picked up some things." She digs a few items out of the bag she's holding and tosses them to him.

He catches them. "Claire Dearing: eternally prepared."

"Claire Dearing: didn't want to be naked."

He unfolds a pair of blue sweatpants with "Costa Rica" in giant red letters down one leg, and a white t-shirt, boldly proclaiming that the wearer hearts t-rexes.

"Before today I wasn't a huge fan," he says, tugging the shirt on over his head, "but now I'm deeply indebted."

She slips a pair of grey sweats on under her robe. He pulls his on under his towel, the elastic waistband snapping as the terrycloth falls to the floor.

"Sorry," she says, gesturing to the door behind her, toward the gift shop somewhere beyond it, "they didn't have any underwear."

"What makes you think I wear underwear?"

"That's true. With those tight jeans of yours you do have the lines to consider."

"Well, yeah, but I could handle that with a g-string."

He picks up his towel and crosses back toward the bathroom. She takes the opportunity to slip on her top, a blue shirt that says "T-Rex hates pushups."

Owen comes back into the room just as she's pulling it over her stomach. "Why is it that the T-Rex gets all the publicity? I don't know any breed of dinosaur that's overly fond of workout routines."

Suddenly she's back in the park, flare in hand, running for her life - for the lives of Gray and Zach and Owen and everyone left on the god-forsaken island. Her lungs are burning, her muscles are screaming and she just can't get enough air.

She's crying and she doesn't realize it, doesn't realize anything until Owen's hands find her shoulders and she's pulled back to the present, the sound of her own cries echoing in her ears.

She folds herself into his embrace and tries to match her breath to the beating of his heart.

* * *

Room service arrives and they sit on the bed, plates balanced on their laps and television flickering soundlessly in front of them.

Owen gestures to the grilled cheese sandwich that's revealed when he removes the cover from his plate. "You wanted to recreate our date?"

"It's the only thing I know for certain you eat."

He lifts his soda. "And a Coke. You really pay attention."

She manages a feeble smile. "I was just trying to keep my eyes off the board shorts."

"Yeah, good call. I didn't see 'lustful glances' anywhere on your itinerary."

She rolls her eyes and takes a bite of her own grilled cheese. It's crunchy and salty, the first food she's had in god knows how long and she knows she should be ravenous, but her stomach starts churning the moment she swallows. She drops the rest back onto her plate.

He nods to her sandwich. "They don't have massaged kale salads on the menu?"

"The masseuse has the week off."

"Bummer. Nobody likes a tense plate of greens." He grins, the corners of his mouth lifting to match the teasing in his voice, but the warmth doesn't quite reach his eyes.

She wishes the melted cheese could warm her on the inside.

* * *

She wakes some time later, eyes snapping open as the jaws of the Indominus Rex snap at her, large and all-encompassing, dripping with blood and sharper than knives.

She screamed in her dream, but it must have stayed in her subconscious because Owen's chest rises and lowers slowly beside her, undisturbed. They're lying on top of the covers, food pushed to the bedside tables, television still bright but soundless. She can see him clearly in the flickering blue and white light, shadows falling across his frowning face.

She reaches for the remote and flicks the television off, then pulls the covers out from under her and slips beneath them. She slides over so she's pressed against him, still separated by a thick, stiff quilt.

She wonders if he's dreaming of running, of chasing, of watching his pack being picked off one by one. She wonders if he'll ever dream of anything else.

She wonders if they'll ever truly escape the island - if she'll ever find solid ground.

Her fingers brush gently against his and he grabs on reflexively. Her eyelids droop with the weight of sleep, and his face is the last thing she sees.

* * *

She's fiddling with the laptop camera angle, making sure the image the board will see is exactly what she wants. A little more to the left and the bed will be entirely out of the frame, but that puts the corner of the mini bar back in it. She can't decide which is preferable for her audience of grey-haired, mostly conservative, under-sexed but over-stimulated men. They're probably all comfortable around mini bars and hotel beds, and for all the wrong reasons.

She looks at her reflection on the monitor. Her outfit's from the shop down the street, a light grey blazer over a black tank. Her hair is ironed straight, and her drugstore makeup is immaculate.

"Fuck protocal," she says to no one as she moves the entire table back a few feet so she can get the mini bar and bed in the same shot.

The corners of her mouth lift imperceptibly at the feeling of being in complete control and not giving a damn. 48-hours-ago-Claire would never have been so cavalier.

"You're all armored up," Owen says as he walks in the room, weighed down by a pair of paper bags.

She wiggles her bare feet. "Not completely."

"Couldn't bear to squeeze them into another pair of heels?"

"There's so much swelling it was never a real possibility."

"Your secret's safe with me."

He pulls some dressings and antiseptic out of one of the bags as she directs her gaze to the notes she's scratched out on the hotel stationery.

She's going to need more armor.

* * *

"Well," he fastens the last bandage and drops his hands from her foot, "can you stand?"

The laptop trills with an incoming call.

"I guess we'll find out in a minute."

She smooths the front of her blazer, taking a moment to still herself and gather the first few words of her prepared remarks. Her eyes shift to Owen long enough to see him duck into the bathroom and then her hand is moving across the touchpad to accept the call.

Twelve sets of eyes peer at her from the 15" screen. The board chair's mouth opens as he prepares to launch into the standard patter.

"Thank you, Mr. Chair," she says, interrupting him before he can can even begin.

The nerves that have been gnawing at her since she first picked up the laptop suddenly fall away. Her clammy skin cools in an instant. Her eyes narrow and her breathing slows.

She becomes the alpha.

"I can do without your pleasantries and you can do without my compliments. Let's cut to the chase. You want to survive the financial bloodbath that began when the markets opened this morning?"

Heads bob up and down across her screen.

"Then you will do exactly as I say."

"Ms. Dearing -"

She ignores the man at the head of the table. He's now the least important person at the meeting. She doesn't need his affirmation or acceptance because she can see the other eleven sets of eyes are waiting on her to continue, anxious, afraid, and completely dependant.

48-hours-ago-Claire would have been looking for a new job if she'd started a meeting with the board like this. 48-hours-ago-Claire worried about whether the board might find her expendable. 48-hours-ago-Claire worried about ceremony and proper channels, about fine print and red tape.

48-hours-ago-Claire never considered the possibility that she might be devoured by the most terrifying creature to ever roam the planet.

She turns her gaze downward for a moment and the corners of her mouth extend upward for the second time this morning.

48-hours-ago-Claire had never gone to a board meeting with dinosaur shit under her fingernails.


End file.
